


Twenty-Five Minutes

by britishliterate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft, Drug Use, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishliterate/pseuds/britishliterate
Summary: Without John, Sherlock keeps spiraling downwards until he collapses completely.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thanks for giving my story a chance!  
> As shown in the tags, I need to place a huge trigger warning here!   
> This scene is set between the morgue and the hug, even though in my story, the hug happened after Sherlock's birthday.   
> Make sure to leave a comment on what you liked and what I can improve, I'd also be super grateful for kudos

 

_"You're suicidal, you're allowed chips. Trust me, it's the only perk."_

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sharp winter air felt biting cold against his sweaty skin and the bleak wind scourged his damp curls against his forehead. Though he had lost his sense of orientation quite a while ago, he must sit on a sordid park bench somewhere between Waterloo Bridge and Blackfriars Bridge.

_Doesn't matter though, by now Mycroft knows anyways._

Across the river he could make out few illuminated buildings, their headlight reflecting in the water, distorted and indistinct on the rafty surface of the water. Maybe it was less because of the roaring storm currently haunting London's street, leaving them deserted and abandoned, and more because of the presumably lethal drug cocktail currently raving inside his veins. It blurred his vision and his perception of reality, leaving him shaking and unable to stand, let alone walk properly, every inch of his body aching with every move he took. He had given up on clutching his chest when it convulsed during episodes of a gruesome, stabbing pain, as if a raging fire had spread from his heart to his whole thorax. Even though his eyes kept fluttering and his vision was dull, he kept focusing on the enlightened facade of The National Theatre. He vaguely remembered having been here before with John, during a case revolving around said theatre.

_John._

Simply the thought of him left a bitter taste in his mouth and a stabbing pain of which Sherlock knew couldn't have arisen from the drugs. A wave of guilt and shame descended upon him. Over the past few weeks and months, all that was left now of what had once been the greatest pair in all of London - possibly on planet - had caved in to nothing more than a colossal pile of regret, madness, fear, sorrow, violence, but most of all - and this is what Sherlock detested most about the whole situation - love. In spite of everything that had happened to the two of them, Sherlock had not once doubted his love for him.

When John had cradled his dying wife in his arm and told him he'd rather have anyone than him, he still loved him.

When John had blamed him so many times for the death of wife that Sherlock had started to do so as well, he still loved him.

When John had almost bludgeoned him to death in that morgue, Sherlock had still loved him more than anything and he knew there was nothing John could do to change that. And there was nothing more that Sherlock needed. John had driven him insane - more insane than he ever could've been on his own -, he had died for John far more than once and he'd do it again instantaneously if that were what it took to protect John Watson. He'd do anything for him and there was no doubt he already had done anything for him, but it wasn't enough, it never was.

A sudden buzzing interrupted his rapid thinking process.

"Mycroft."

_"You have not left your flat in two weeks and four days, but as soon as violent storm approaches, Sherlock Holmes is back on the street. How come so?"_

"It's hardly a violent storm"

_"Well, yes, if one numbs their entire nervous system and shuts down every bit of awareness of their surroundings, then it's hardly violent"_

"What's your point, I'm busy"

" _My point is that you have ceased to get a hold of yourself and hence it has gotten to the point where I can no longer safely let you live and act by yourself, I have initiated a tracking system for you, simply to ensure your safety"_

"You've always had one. If you don't mind, I am still very busy, so goodbye"

" _He's not gone, you know?"_

"Excuse me?"

" _John. We both know it is about John. It always has and it always will, won't it? I know where he is, what he is doing and I promise you, he is coming back. I promise"_

"Why the sudden emotional outburst?"

" _Happy Birthday"_

With a contemptuous grunt, Sherlock hung up and clenched his jaw, not allowing the anger seething in his stomach to take over.

At this point, it didn't matter if John came back or not, as he'd most likely be gone in less than twenty-five minutes in case his calculations were precise. He'd done enough harm to John Watson. He'd caused him enough pain, he'd put him through more than any person could endure, through loss and heartbreak and danger and he wouldn't do that anymore. Sherlock had sworn that John during one particularly bad night.

The dosage had been higher than ever before and while he sat in his chair and barely felt the flame in the fireplace scorching his feet, he'd talked to John, who had turned out to be nothing more than a hallucination. He'd sworn, he'd do no more harm to him. He'd let him live a normal, peaceful life, find love again and raise his daughter without Sherlock ever putting him or his family in harm's way again. He had sworn that and he couldn't break another vow.

The chips in his hands had turned cold by now, so he closed his eyes and waited for the time to run out, making the last face on his mind John Watson.


End file.
